


One night in Paris

by orphan_account



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale/Crowley First Kiss (Good Omens), M/M, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:34:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27353551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He called me “love”, I didn’t mind. He grabbed my hand, my knee. He put his head against my shoulder, laughing, dropping ash from the cig on the trousers. I didn’t mind either.We were drunk, that’s what drunk people do, and we were in Paris, which gave it a lovely touch.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 34





	One night in Paris

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a warm thank you for @mia-ugly for being that shy ray of sun peeking in my window on a rainy day. Thank you for being you, thank you for all your kind words ❤️
> 
> And there’s art for it https://sinnabonka.tumblr.com/post/633701144103960576/felt-like-sketching-this-to-accompany-the-little

I’ve met him in Paris, all thin and sharp, loud and honest. Snarky. Bright. Straightforward. Bony fingers grabbing on anything flammable coming in a clean glass, a fine Italian suit, a pair of round dark glasses, so inappropriate at such a late hour, yet stubbornly resting on a bridge of a crooked nose. 

I walked into the gallery, overwhelmed by the crowd outside, and from a single look Amelia, the host, recognized a plea for help in my eyes. She flew up to me, like an elegant exotic bird, gently squeezed my elbow and made me put my hand around her thin waistline. 

“Come, hon, I want you to meet someone.” She took a big gulp of her champagne and put the glass aside. “He’s a painter. Not a good painter, like I am, but these days his name attracts the press as a pile of crap attracts flies.”

I nodded politely, not sure what’d be an expected response here, and followed her toward the noisy gathering in the centre of the room. And there he was.

Anthony looked Amelia in the eye and told her exactly what he thought of her. Of her “proper” and “disgustingly perfect” art, of her provocative low cut. He talked for fifteen minutes straight, and not even once he repeated himself, and when he was done, the crowd, that had been gathering around as he went on and on, applauded. 

Dozens of flashlights lit up the place, blinding and disorienting. 

“See?” He poked her nose and grinned, as her cheeks blushed angrily. “Perfection doesn’t matter. People tend to get bored. An eye seeks details that stand out from the ordinary, and as far as I’m concerned, not you, nor your art deserve the attention.”

Then he turned to me and a slight smile tickled the corners of his mouth. 

“And you...” glancing over his glasses, he offered me his hand, “...seem like someone worth the second look. I didn’t quite catch the name, though.” 

Long story short, he got Amelia Starburst to throw us out into the rain. You’ve seen newspapers or you must’ve heard the rumors, the incident got quite the coverage. She tried to tear a couple of his paintings down from the walls as well, but her own security didn’t allow her to. Just like she said, his name attracted the press and thus came with a price.

Soaking wet, avoiding the attentive gaze of paparazzis sniffing around the gallery, we lurked into the darkness under the bridge, waiting for the rain to stop. 

He took his glasses off to wipe them dry, and, believe it or not, without them all his sharpness, all his cockiness was gone. Like the glasses were a part of his armor, an impenetrable veil hiding his true nature from the world.

“Anyone waiting for you tonight?” He threw at me casually. Maybe too casually for me to actually believe the simplicity of the feeling behind it. 

I took a moment to let him think there was even the slightest possibility someone was, and then, shook my head no. Two can play this game. He put the glasses back on, as well as his well known attitude, and ran back into the rain, inviting me to follow. 

Did I hesitate? Maybe for the shortest moment, but the thought gleamed like a lightning strike and vanished in the night.

Anthony crossed the street, totally ignoring the lights (madly staring at us with one red eye) and the traffic (surprisingly busy for such a late hour), and shouldered the door to the dark and empty bar open for me. I still have no idea what the name of the bar was, not even sure I recall the sign above the entrance.

“Welcome, love,” he hopped onto the high bar chair and raised a hand, waving the bartender over to take an order, “to the place where the magic harbors.” 

I was going to order something light. I hadn't eaten, for one, I was tired and nervous, for two and three, but he asked the bartender for a bottle of his finest whiskey, glasses, Coke and a lemon. Sliced, in a paper cup, ready to go. Not like it left me a choice. 

“Are we leaving already?” I asked, confused. 

He took me by the elbow and pulled toward the heavy metal door. Hidden in the darkest corner, it promised all the secrets and mysteries of the world awaiting on the other side.

“Not quite, love.” 

We took the stairs, too steep to get down later after the bottle of whiskey, and he pushed another door open for me. 

“Welcome to the best view in this city.” 

I peeked outside, and, believe me as a say, I gasped aloud. For someone so fond of imperfections, he cared a great deal about the perfect spot to get to know Paris from. The whole city just laid there on the open palm, ready to be examined, praised, breathed in or chugged down in one good gulp, swallowed. 

He sat down on the edge of the roof and invited me to join him. As I did, he poured two glasses, one for each, and handed one to me.

“Do you take every new acquaintance here for a drink, Anthony? Or should I feel special?” 

“Oh, you are.” He clinked our glasses together with a smile. “And I want you to see it.”

I glanced at him, the impermeable mask already back on. 

With every sip taken, more details started to fade out. The world at our feet transformed into the impressionistic painting: fine thin brush strokes depicting the dalliance of light and shadow, the pieces coming together only while admiring from afar. The mist raised and covered the city warm, the distant sirens sung their gentle lullabies into its ear.

We were talking about those kinds of things you talk about when you first meet someone, like the city you grew up in, or the first clumsy yet pure love, then switched to topics you usually keep for the closest of friends, like hopes and fears nesting inside your chest. And still, we were far from being out of things to discover about each other.

He called me “love”, I didn’t mind. He grabbed my hand, my knee. He put his head against my shoulder, laughing, dropping ash from the cig on the trousers. I didn’t mind either. We were drunk, that’s what drunk people do, and we were in Paris, which gave it a lovely touch. 

“Oi!” He pointed out somewhere below in the city. “What do you see?”

“Not sure what I should be looking at.”

“All those people in the streets. What do you see there?”

I frowned, clear thoughts not willing to guest in my head at that point. 

Instead, there was a song ringing about that magnificent city we found ourselves lost in. As I recall, the song was on in the bar earlier, and we were singing along while waiting for our drinks. Felt like a flashback from a past life.

Little wonder the whole world was enamored with Paris, since the city itself was crazy about itself. Selfish, yet selfless and generous and loving heart of the world.

“It’s life, Az. And what speaks art louder than life?” 

That thought rang just right with me. 

“Life is short, love, but art isn’t.” He continued, then shook his head, irritated, and added with a thoughtful gleam in his eyes: “The biggest tragedy of humankind - the fragility, the short expiration date. Art doesn’t have one. I wish I could just amber a piece of my soul, like a tiny prehistoric bug, in one of my paintings and let it hang in some fancy gallery, watching generations change each other. Watching people to live, to love and to die, ad infinitum.”

I glanced up at him, the blinking electric lights flooding his cheeks, reflecting in the lenses of his glasses. So alive back then, so vulnerable, I felt so honored to witness this strictly human side of him. I was, indeed, special and it was his presence that made me so.

Maybe by daylight he was the infamous Anthony J. Crowley with his works being a pride of the best galleries of the world, but now, sinking in the predawn dullness, he was just a man. A man not afraid of dying, but of being forgotten. 

He grasped onto the feeling of being noticed, of being heard and seen - clearly and precisely, maybe for the first time despite being constantly in the flashlight, and even though it lasted just for a moment, he shone, like the Northern Star among the dark restless sky. 

Praising him openly, I, a lonely sailor on his tiny schooner lost in the middle of the endless ocean, invested all my hopes in following that bright quivering light of his. 

Let it be just for one night, I thought, but we were drunk and we were in Paris and we were kissing with the lazy and unsure sun rising behind our backs. The city awakening below belonged to us, and we belonged to it.

Once we parted, our lips still holding onto the gentle aftertaste, Anthony exhaled, his smile gentle and heartfelt. He might have got it from the way my eyes went misty, but I was, still am, grateful that he knew that not that night, nor this particular part of him he entrusted me with, would ever be forgotten. 

Hand in hand, my head resting on his shoulder, we were ready to meet a new day and everything it was willing to give us. 

  
  
  



End file.
